How the Light Gets In: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel (21 page)

Gamache grimaced. There were two things you never, ever, said to Ruth Zardo.
We’re out of alcohol,
and
I like your poetry.

“And what did you say to her?” he was almost afraid to ask.

“What do you think I said?”

“I’m sure you were gracious and invited her in.”

“Well, I invited her to do something.”

“And did she?”

“No.” Ruth sounded surprised still. “She stood at my front door and just said, ‘Thank you.’”

“What did you do?”

“Well, what could I do after that? I slammed the door in her face. Can’t say she didn’t ask for it.”

“You were provoked beyond reason,” he said, and she gave him a keen, assessing look. “Did you know who she was?”

“Do you think she said, ‘Hi, I’m a Quint. Can I come in?’ Of course I didn’t know who she was. I just thought she was some old fart who wanted something from me. So I got rid of her.”

“And what did she do?”

“She came back. Brought a bottle of Glenlivet. Apparently she’d had a word with Gabri over at Chez Gay. He told her the only way into my home was through a bottle of Scotch.”

“A gap in your security system,” said Gamache.

“She sat there.” Ruth pointed to his plastic chair. “And I sat here. And we drank.”

“At what stage did she tell you who she was?”

“She didn’t really. She told me I had the poem right. I asked her which poem and she quoted it to me. Like you did. Then she said that Virginie had felt exactly like that. I asked what Virginie she had in mind, and she said her sister. Virginie Ouellet.”

“And that’s when you knew?” Gamache asked.

“God, man, the fucking duck knew then.”

Ruth got up and returned with the Bernard book on the Quints. She threw it on the table and sat back down.

“Vile book,” she said.

Gamache looked at the cover. A photograph, in black and white, of Dr. Bernard sitting in a chair, surrounded by the Ouellet Quints, about eight years of age, looking at him adoringly.

Ruth was also looking at the cover. At the five little girls.

“I used to pretend I was adopted out and one day they’d come and find me.”

“And one day,” Gamache said quietly, “Constance did.”

Constance Ouellet, at the end of her life, at the end of the road, had come to this falling-down old home, to this falling-down old poet. And here, finally, she’d found her companion.

And Ruth had found her sister. At last.

Ruth met his eyes, and smiled.
“Or will it be, as always was / too late?”

Alas.

NINETEEN

Chief Inspector Gamache drove in to Montréal, and now sat at his computer reading the weekly roundup from Inspector Lacoste, from his homicide agents, from detachments around the province.

It was Saturday morning and he was alone in the office. He responded to emails, wrote notes, and sent off thoughts and suggestions on murder investigations under way. He called a couple of inspectors in remote areas with active cases, to talk about progress.

When all that was done, he looked at the last daily report. It was an executive summary of activities and cases from Chief Superintendent Francoeur’s office. Gamache knew he didn’t have to read it, knew if he opened it he was doing exactly as Sylvain Francoeur wanted. It was sent to Gamache not as information, and certainly not as a courtesy, but as an assault.

Gamache’s finger rested on the open message command.

If he pressed down it would be flagged as opened, by him. At his desk, on his terminal. Using his security codes.

Francoeur would know he’d bested Gamache, again.

Gamache pressed anyway, and the words sprang up on the page.

He read what Francoeur wanted him to see. And he felt exactly what Francoeur wanted him to feel.

Impotent. Angry.

Francoeur had assigned Jean-Guy Beauvoir to another operation, this time a drug raid that could easily have been left to the RCMP and border guards. Gamache stared at the words and took a long, slow, deep breath in. Held it for a moment. Then he released it. Slowly. He forced himself to re-read the report. To take it in, fully.

Then he closed the message and filed it.

He sat at his chair and looked through the glass between his office and the open room beyond. The empty room beyond. With its bedraggled strings of Christmas lights. The half-hearted tree, without gifts. Not even fake ones.

He wanted to swing his chair around, to turn his back on all that and stare at the city he loved. But instead he contemplated what he saw, and what he’d read. And what he felt. Then he made a call, got up, and left.

*   *   *

He probably should have driven, but the Chief wanted fresh air. The streets of Montréal were slushy underfoot and bustling with holiday shoppers, bumping each other and wishing each other anything but peace and goodwill.

The Salvation Army was performing carols on one of the corners. As he walked, a boy soprano sang, “Once in Royal David’s City.”

But Chief Inspector Gamache heard none of it.

He wove his way between the shoppers, not meeting anyone’s eyes. Deep in thought. Finally the Chief arrived at an office building, pressed a button and was buzzed in. An elevator took him to the top floor. He walked down the deserted corridor and opened a door into a familiar waiting room.

The sight of it, the scent of it, turned his stomach, and he was slightly surprised by the force of the memories that hit him, and the wave of nausea.

“Chief Inspector.”

“Dr. Fleury.”

The two men shook hands.

“I’m glad you could see me,” said Gamache. “Especially on a Saturday.
Merci.
”

“I’m not normally in on a weekend. I was just clearing my desk before heading off for holiday.”

“I’m sorry,” said the Chief. “I’m disturbing you.”

Dr. Fleury regarded the man in front of him, and smiled. “I said I’d see you, Armand. You’re not disturbing me at all.”

He ushered the Chief into his office, a comfortable, bright space with large windows, a desk and two chairs facing each other. Fleury indicated one, but he needn’t have. Armand Gamache knew it well. Had spent hours there.

Dr. Fleury was his therapist. Indeed, he was the main therapist for the Sûreté du Québec. His offices, though, weren’t in headquarters. It was decided a neutral place would be better.

Besides, if Dr. Fleury’s practice depended upon Sûreté agents coming for therapy, he’d starve. Sûreté agents were not known for admitting they needed help. And certainly not renowned for asking for it.

But after the raid on the factory, Chief Inspector Gamache had made it a condition of returning to work that all the agents involved, wounded physically or otherwise, needed to get therapy.

Including himself.

“I thought you didn’t trust me,” said Dr. Fleury.

The Chief smiled. “I trust you. It’s others I’m not so sure about. There’ve been leaks about me, my personal life and relationships, but mostly leaks from sessions you had with my team. Information has been used against them, deeply personal information they only admitted to you.”

Gamache’s eyes remained on Dr. Fleury. His voice was matter-of-fact, but his gaze was hard.

“Your office was the only place it could’ve come from,” he continued. “But I never accused you, personally. I hope you know that.”

“I do. But you believed my files had been hacked.”

Gamache nodded.

“Do you still?”

The Chief held the therapist’s eyes. They were almost the same age, with Fleury perhaps a year or two younger. Experienced men. One who’d seen too much, and one who’d heard too much.

“I know you investigated thoroughly,” said the Chief. “And there was no evidence of tampering with your patient files.”

“But do you believe it?”

Gamache smiled. “Or am I paranoid?”

“I hope so,” said Fleury, crossing his legs and placing his open notebook on his knee. “I’m eyeing a cottage in the Laurentians.”

Gamache laughed, but the nausea had settled into his stomach, a sour, stagnant pool. He hesitated.

“Are you still not sure, Armand?”

Gamache could see the concern, almost certainly genuine, in Fleury’s face, and could hear it in his voice.

“Someone else called me paranoid recently,” admitted the Chief.

“Who was that?”

“Thérèse Brunel. Superintendent Brunel.”

“A superior officer?” asked Fleury.

Gamache nodded. “But also a friend, and confidante. She thought I’d gone off the deep end. Seeing conspiracies all over the place. She, ah…” He looked briefly at his hands in his lap, then back up to Dr. Fleury’s face. Gamache smiled a little bashfully. “She refused to help me investigate and took off on holiday to Vancouver.”

“You think her holiday plans had something to do with you?”

“Now you think I’m a narcissist?”

“I can see a new outboard motor in my future,” admitted Fleury. “Continue, Chief Inspector.”

But this time Gamache didn’t smile. Instead he leaned forward.

“There’s something going on. I know it, I just can’t prove it. Yet. There’s corruption inside the Sûreté, but it’s more than that. I think a senior officer is behind it.”

Dr. Fleury was unmoved. Unfazed.

“You keep saying, ‘I think,’” said the therapist. “But are your fears really rational?”

“They’re not fears,” said Gamache.

“But they’re not facts.”

Gamache was silent, clearly trying to choose words that would convince this man.

“Is this about the leaked video again? You know there was an official investigation,” said Dr. Fleury. “You need to accept their findings and let it go.”

“Move on?” Gamache heard the tinge of bitterness, a slight whine, in his voice.

“Things you can’t control, Armand,” the therapist reminded him, patiently.

“It’s not about control, it’s about responsibility. Taking a stand.”

“The white knight? The key is to know if you’re tilting at a legitimate target or a windmill.”

Chief Inspector Gamache glared at Fleury, his eyes hard, then he inhaled sharply as though from a sudden pain. He dropped his head into his hands and covered his face. Massaging his forehead. Feeling the rough scar.

Eventually Gamache raised his head and met patient and kind eyes.

My God,
thought Gamache.
He feels sorry for me.

“I’m not making this up,” he insisted. “Something’s going on.”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” the Chief admitted, and realized how lame that sounded. “But it goes high up. To the top.”

“Are these the same people who were supposed to have hacked into my files and stolen the notes on your therapy?”

Gamache could hear the slightly patronizing tone.

“Not just mine,” said Gamache. “They stole the files of everyone who was involved in that raid. Who came to you for help. Who told you everything. All their fears, their vulnerabilities. What they want from life. What matters to them. A road map into their heads.”

His voice was getting louder, more intense. His right hand started to tremble and he took hold of it with his left. Gripping it.

“Jean-Guy Beauvoir came to you. He sat right here, and opened up to you. He didn’t want to, but I ordered him to. I forced him to. And now they know everything about him. Know how to get inside his head and under his skin. They turned him against me.”

Gamache’s tone slid from sulky to pleading. Begging this therapist to believe him. Begging just one person to believe him.

“So you still think my records have been hacked?” Fleury’s normally steady voice was incredulous. “If you really believe that, why’re you here now, Armand?”

That stopped the Chief. They held each other’s eyes.

“Because there’s no one else to talk to,” Gamache finally said, his voice almost a whisper. “I can’t talk to my wife, my colleagues. I can’t tell my friends. I don’t want to involve them. I could tell Lacoste. I’ve been tempted. But she has a young family…”

His voice trailed off.

“In the past, when things got bad, who did you speak to?”

“Jean-Guy.” The words were almost inaudible.

“Now you’re alone.”

Gamache nodded. “I don’t mind that. I prefer it.” He was resigned now.

“Armand, you need to believe me when I say that my files haven’t been stolen. They’re secure. No one but me knows what we’ve talked about. You’re safe here. What you’re telling me now will go no further. I promise.”

Fleury continued to regard the man in front of him. Sunken, sad. Trembling. This was what was beneath the façade.

“You need help, Armand.”

“I do need help, but not the sort you think,” said Gamache, rallying.

“There’s no threat,” said Fleury, his voice convincing. “You’ve created it in your mind, to explain things you don’t want to see or admit.”

“My department’s been gutted,” said Gamache, anger once again flaring. “I suppose that’s my imagination. I spent years building it up, taking discarded agents and turning them into the best homicide investigators in the country. And now they’ve left. I suppose I’m imagining that.”

“Maybe you’re the reason they left,” Fleury suggested quietly.

Gamache gaped at him. “That’s what he wants everyone to believe.”

“Who?”

“Syl—” but Gamache stopped himself and stared out the window. Trying to rein himself in.

“Why’re you here, Armand? What do you want?”

“I didn’t come for me.”

Dr. Fleury nodded. “That’s obvious.”

“I need to know if Jean-Guy Beauvoir is still seeing you.”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“This isn’t a polite request.”

“That day in the factory—” began Dr. Fleury before Gamache cut him off.

“This has nothing to do with that.”

“Of course it does,” said Dr. Fleury, impatience finally getting the better of him. “You felt you’d lost control, and your agents were killed.”

“I know what happened, I don’t need reminding.”

“What you need to be reminded of,” snapped Fleury, “is that it wasn’t your fault. But you refuse to see that. It’s willful and arrogant and you need to accept what happened. Inspector Beauvoir has his own life.”